The Boy Next Door
by Cheeky Slytherin Lass
Summary: Piers doesn't even know he wants a boyfriend until Dean Thomas moves in next door.


_Potions, task 4: Write about a first kiss_

 _Count Your Buttons: cigarette_

 _Ami's Audio, C-List: Write about something rare (rare pair)_

 _Sophie's Shelf: DeanPiers_

 _Arcade, Raiden: leader, lighting, white_

 _Auction: White_

 _Gobstones, black stone (neighbors): second person, House tie, cookies_

 _365: a first kiss_

 _Insane House Challenge: second person pov_

 _Word Count: 1350_

 _Thank you to Lucy and Elizabeth for being lovely betas_

* * *

I.

It's just after your sixteenth birthday when you see the moving van pull up next door. You're outside, debating finishing off the bottle of vodka a friend had given you for your birthday while trying to avoid Max—as much as you love your cousin, you would rather not be discovered; if Max can't find you, he can't ask you to do chores. When you look up, prepared to tuck another cigarette between your lips, the family is getting out.

They look average enough. An adult couple gets out first, followed by three girls. You lose interest and are about to look away when the boy steps out. Your first instinct is to roll your eyes at the West Ham kit he wears, but then you get to really look at him, and you can't help but think he's cute.

You light your cigarette, scowling. Max had been right. Maybe you _are_ more interested in the same sex than you would like to admit.

The mother notices you with your cigarette. She offers you an uncertain wave before herding the rest of the family inside.

The boy doesn't even look your way. You hate how disappointed this makes you feel.

…

The house smells warm and chocolatey when you step inside, and you're not surprised to find Max at the oven.

"Cookies?" you snort. "Bit Stepford, isn't it?"

Your older cousin tosses a black-and-white striped oven mitt at you, rolling his eyes. "Not all of us are rude twats like you," he teases, his gentle tone contrasting greatly with his harsh words. "Some of us have these things called manners and like to make people feel welcome."

Heat floods your cheeks, and you awkwardly scrub your hand over the back of your neck, offering your Max a sheepish, apologetic smile.

Max is a good bloke. He could have easily given up on you, just like everyone else has. After your parents' death, he didn't _have_ to take you in. Hell, he had barely even been an adult, but he had risen to the responsibility without protest.

So, of course he's baking cookies for the new neighbors. That's just the sort of thing that he does.

"Do you need help?" you ask.

He offers you a crooked smile before gesturing at the countertops. The mixing bowl is in the sink, and flour dusts the counter and floor. Max doesn't even have to say anything. With a groan, you offer him a mock salute before grabbing a rag and cleaning spray.

Maybe you should have waited a little longer before coming in.

…

The family next door are nice. They welcome you and Max in with bright smiles ,and they even let you have a cookie.

The boy is there, still wearing West Ham colors. His full lips quirk into a smile, and you never want to look away. He is glorious.

"Dean," he says, offering his hand. "Dean Thomas."

"Piers Polkiss."

And it takes only seconds for you to decide that you most definitely _do_ have a crush on the boy next door.

…

"I don't blame you." Max takes his hat off and tosses it onto his favorite chair in the living room.

Your dark brows raise in confusion. "Blame me for what?" you ask, trying to figure out what on earth you could have done.

Your cousin smirks and moves closer, affectionately ruffling your hair. "If I was about ten years younger, I would go for Dean too."

There's the heat again as a blush colors your cheeks. You turn away, hoping Max doesn't notice, but his laughter tells you that he's already seen your reaction. You hate him a little bit.

II.

You've never been so fucking bored. You roam the house, desperate for _anything_ to do. Right now, you wouldn't even mind chores, but Max has cleaned the shabby little house from top to bottom, and there's nothing left. He isn't around right now—he'd had about half a dozen errands to run before his shift at the pub starts.

You wish you could still ring up Dudley, but those days are gone now. Your best friend and once fearless leader hasn't been the same since the previous summer. You still don't know what is actually going on with him, but you can still remember the phone call and his panic as he said he had to change, that he's seen his true colors.

Without Dudley, you don't see much of Malcolm, Gordon, or Dennis either. Dudley had given you a reason to deal with them. Now, though, you're certain you'll end up in another fight if they make another stupid homophobic "joke" around you. It's best to avoid them altogether.

You grab your pack of cigarettes and shove them into your pocket before hurrying out. You don't actually know where you're going, but if you stay still for much longer, you might lose your mind.

…

Somehow, you end up in the park. It's empty; undoubtedly the rapidly darkening clouds are keeping parents and kids inside. Good. You prefer the quiet.

As you make your way toward the swing set, you realize you are not actually alone. He's traded in his trademark West Ham kit for a white t-shirt, but it's definitely still Dean. He sits with a sketch pad balanced in his lap, dragging a pencil across the page.

"I didn't know you draw."

It seems like a stupid thing to say. You barely know him at all, beyond the occasional nod of acknowledgment whenever your paths cross.

Dean looks up, brown eyes wide. It's clear he hadn't expected to be found. His lips quirk, forming a quick grin. "Yeah."

You pluck a cigarette from one pocket, then a lighter from the other. "Can I join you?" you ask.

Dean nods, and you sit beside him, lighting the cigarette and inhaling the bitter smoke. Your eyes flicker to the sketch pad. He's drawing some boy, and you hate the way it makes your stomach twist itself into knots.

"My best mate," he murmurs, as though he owes you some explanation. "Seamus."

"Not your boyfriend?" You want to smack yourself for being so forward. "I mean… I just—"

Dean chuckles and shakes his head. "No," he says. "Just friends." He shrugs and resumes sketching. "I don't have a boyfriend."

It's such a simple sentence, but it gives you hope.

…

The two of you run, splashing in the puddles as thunder and lightning fill the afternoon air. You skid to a stop outside his house.

"Want to come in?" he asks.

Maybe you should say no, but Max isn't home, and Dean is so lovely. You smile. "Yes."

…

His room is tidy. West Ham posters are tacked to the white walls. There's a collection of books that catch your eye— _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, Basic Broomstick Repair,_ and _Quidditch Through the Ages_. You've never heard of any of them, and it's hard to keep your curiosity at bay. Somehow, you manage.

Dean sits down on the bed, and you sit next to him. He grabs a gold-and-crimson striped tie, awkwardly fidgeting with it. You realize he's nervous. Good. At least it isn't just you.

"Do you have a boyfriend?" he asks.

"No," you answer, your voice barely above a whisper. "I didn't know I wanted one until quite recently."

"When?"

"When you moved in."

It sounds so cheesy, but Dean grins. "That was actually really smooth," he says.

You move closer, and so does he. The two of you repeat this process until your legs are touching.

Fuck! You're trembling, and you hate it. But you've never kissed anyone before, and all you know is that you want Dean to be your first.

You lean in, and your lips find his.

It isn't the sweet, suave kisses you always see on the telly. It is more tongue than probably necessary, and it's so wet and sloppy. There's an apology on your lips when you pull away, but Dean pulls you back in, kissing away your insecurities.

You think you could get used to this.


End file.
